


The Man Who Flies, The Man Who Falls

by orphan_account



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Death, Gen, Whump, falling, no editing we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-25 17:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20916218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Dick Grayson flies, he always had. Maybe he’s destined to fall all the same.





	The Man Who Flies, The Man Who Falls

Dick wasn’t a man that _fell._ He was a man that soared, poised high above the streets with a grin on his face as he flew. He stood tall on the rooftops, his grapple line always there to catch him, to guide him through the lowest points of his swings and bring him higher into the air. It filled him with joy, made him want to go higher, fly farther, do more complicated flips and laugh aloud to his family around him whenever they were near. 

He was always high in the air, starting all the way back with the circus. The training he did, the practiced flips and the nets underneath to catch him just in case until he could get it perfectly. Even then, he never fell. His grip was tight on the bar, his parents ready to snatch his wrist at even a moment of weakness to save him from the pit his stomach would have become. Falling would have been safe, during the practices, but during the shows when there was no net underneath, his hands clung to the bars all the tighter. Throughout all of it, he never fell.

The next time Dick was in the air he was Robin. Some of his joy had finally returned to him from the time he had to mourn, and now Bruce stood little more than two feet away, watching as Dick jumped up from flip to flip, standing back tucks into front aerials and back pikes as the Commissioner stands awkwardly by the Batsignal. They would be following another mob, and Dick would be flitting through every flip he could think of along the way. Batman timed his swings oddly, slightly off from how he taught Dick to do it to the point that he’s halfway under the green pixie boots in the bottom of every swing. On this patrol, and every other one, Batman was ready to catch him should he fall. But Dick timed it carefully, his training always in the back of his mind as he braced himself for every jump, the adrenaline pushing him to jump higher. So during his time as Robin, he never fell.

From Robin into Nightwing, his patrolling antics remained the same. On the occasions that brought Bats over from Gotham into Bludhaven or vice versa, the space above the streets would always be filled with his presence, flashier and more pronounced from the years upon years he’s had to perfect them. His lines were longer than they used to be, bringing him closer to the cars and people below in his board-stiff position before flinging him up into the sky until he could almost feel the stars between his fingers. His brothers would only chuckle as they follow his trails or grumble about safety hazards before joining in a more subdued version of it at Dick’s nudging. They felt safe with him. After all, he was the man who soared above all the rest. He never fell.

Never falling himself didn’t stop the nightmares.

He could remember, after waking up, every detail of his parents fall. He could hear the exact pitch of their screams, see the terror on their faces as they reached out for him. He could remember in the Batman suit, urging his swing to go faster at the sight of Tim falling from too high up, no grapple there to save him. He could smell the vague smoke in the air mixed with the sweat of his overexertion, taste the bile in his throat as he just tried to make it over there. He could remember the details of a world not quite his own, feeling Jason’s fingers slip from his own, the freezing metal of the building through his pants.

He woke from those nightmares more tired than when he’d fallen asleep. He chose to stay on the ground for a while, as long as he could manage before the nightly patrol came along. But no matter how many nightmares he had, nothing could keep the flying man out of the skies for too long, and his yips of delight making trails in the darkness under the moon would be back by the next day. Between the nightmares, between his joys, he never fell. 

It was barely a second on the edge of the rooftop before he was pushed off balance. His arms shot our on instinct, grabbing for the familiarity of a bar or the edge of a roof or the stiff arm of one of his allies. His fists closed on air. His shoulders were the furthest out, his neck curling inwards to maintain eye contact and look at his family as his eyes widened as far as they would go. Bruce reacted first, a punch going harder than the others as one arm shoved away from the Batsuit, outstretched. Dick’s hips passed over the edge of the building next, a sharp intake of breath bringing little air into his lungs. The others turned, willing to ignore their personal adversaries and take blows to save their brother. The last of his body, Dick’s feet slid off the final corner of the roof. 

His stomach dropped faster than he did, the sense of dread dragging through his limbs far before he could form a remotely coherent thought. His limbs fell limp against the air rushing by him, every ounce of his training telling him that this is _wrong_ and everything is _wrong_ and _he shouldn’t be falling._ He sees as arms fly over the edge after him, grabbing for him as the faces of his family follow shortly after. They’re too high up. His throat begins to burn, harder than he thinks it has since his last performance with the circus, and he realizes with a start that he’s screaming. His eyes fight the air trying to dry them out, and he can’t tell if the water above him is just watering against the wind or tears coming from the sucking feeling in his chest. 

Dick Grayson is the man who flies. He’s the man who never falls, who laughs and quips with his flips under the night sky and always has. He’s a man whose reign of the skies has inspired many, and whose legacy would stand determined no matter how he met his end, no matter when his day would arrive. He’s a man with his affinity for the air written in his blood, an ink too strong and too deep for him to leave alone. He’s a man with his destiny in the air, his story unfolding to let him form his empire among the stars as he swings from building to building. Dick Grayson is a man who flies, and nobody thought it was possible for him to fall.

But as the air followed him, it met the ground. A resounding crack on the cold pavement, the few and scattered civilians freezing to stare at the bleeding body. Screams of rage burst from the rooftops above, and the cracks of bones were incessant for what felt like an eternity for those who remained still underneath. They died down, slowly, replaced with the empty silence. The wind stilled. 

Dick Grayson was a man who flew, but his destiny was always to fall. He only had to wait his turn.


End file.
